


Conditions of Morbidity

by hayvocado



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Mainly Molly does it but ok, Other, Reader Insert, Reader's boyf is a dick, Sherlock is kind of a dick but he can't help it, Sherlock saves you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-06-04 01:21:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6635239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayvocado/pseuds/hayvocado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Y/N) is in an abusive relationship, and Sherlock takes notice--not that he didn't notice it ages ago; the man notices everything. She just needs an extra push to find her way out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr. Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> I worked really hard on this omg I hope you all like it !!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Holmes notices a lot of things--hell, he notices everything. It's no surprise he's "deduced" your predicament.

“You should leave him.” Mr. Holmes says nonchalantly. He does so without even looking up from his cadaver. You gape at him. Your mouth hangs open, and your ears begin to ring. At first, you can’t quite believe he’s said anything, seeing as he’s still scrupulously examining Mr. Barnes’ corpse. You continue to gawk in silence for far too long, and he still makes no effort to elaborate.  
  
After a few moments of you opening and closing your mouth, much like a fish, he glances up at you. He gives you a look that you can’t help but feel insulted by. It’s like he’s just called you an idiot with his eyes. “Your boyfriend.” Each syllable is hideously stressed, as if he were speaking to a cantankerous child.  
  
His eyes return to the body, and you straighten up in your chair. The brash reverberating sound of him setting down a scalpel onto the table, and subsequently moving on to the next tool, makes you flinch.  
  
“Excuse me?” You gasp out, suddenly breathless.  
  
“He abuses you. It’s quite evident.” The way that he states it, so indifferent and sure, makes it seem as if he were simply speaking of the weather. Your heart rate picks up as you tuck an unseen flyaway behind your ear. Dropping your head, you go back to your paperwork, intent on pretending that the conversation—if one can even call it that—never ensued.  
  
***  
  
Twenty seven minutes—not that you were counting—of silence later, Molly comes in, her tresses pulled back in an untidy plait. There are unruly hairs fanning out all around, making a halo about her head. Her blouse is twisted to the side and not all the way pulled down, as if she dressed in the car. Her lab coat falls halfway off of one of her shoulders. She doesn’t even take a breath before the falsetto of her voice resounds through the otherwise noiseless room.  
  
“Oh, god, Y/N, sorry I’m so late. My alarm didn’t go off, and Toby was sick all over the sofa this morning and I-”  
  
“No one cares about your unwell cat, Molly,” he says. It’s as if he’s speaking to a child, reminding her that breaking others’ pencils is unkind. You make a mental note to ask Molly if he’s always so rude. Molly simply sighs and brushes off the jibe, answering your unvoiced question.  
  
“Hello, Sherlock,” she says brightly, as if he didn’t just ostracize her dying cat. When he merely grunts noncommittally, she turns on her heel to face you once again. Whilst she goes to work straightening her shirt, she speaks again. “I’m sorry again, you should be off already.” She smiles sheepishly.  
  
“It’s no problem, Molls. I’ve been meaning to finish up a few documents anyways.” You smile at her reassuringly. You really don’t mind working overtime, especially since you get paid an hourly wage. Her punctuality, and more importantly, the lack of it, tends to make or break your paycheck. It’s not as if you completely rely on the paychecks. Sometimes it’s just nice to be somewhere outside of your cramped flat, away from Benjamin.  
  
Every once in awhile, you come in early, a few hours before your shift officially starts. You never really start working, since Molly is always fluttering around at the time. You simply sit at your desk in the far corner, observing the work that she puts in. Since you’ve been hired at St. Bartholomew’s, just over a month ago, you’ve noticed that the morgue gains a significantly larger amount of attention than most others you’ve worked at.  
  
The police trust you and Molly with the bodies of those involved with high-profile cases. You both work diligently to complete your work as quickly and precisely as possible. Mr. Holmes has only been in once or twice before, and he’d only really been around long enough to see you leave at shift changes. The first time that you met, he seemed to just be a bit antisocial. Maybe detectives like him were just better at working alone, without distractions.  
  
The second time that you crossed paths, it became exceedingly clear to you why exactly he has only one friend, and a load of people that detest him. He wasn’t horrid to you, but he made it very obvious that he thought less of you than himself. If you’d not felt so insulted by his complete dismissal of you, you would have agreed. He obviously has a high IQ, and you have no doubt in mind that he puts each and every point of it to good use. You virtually admire the man. The raw aptitude and unadulterated determination that radiate off of him every single time he comes in to examine a cadaver makes you want to do better, to be like him.  
  
Well, not exactly like him. You hope that a scrap of empathy finds a way to fit into all of those high-powered brain cells.  
  
Grabbing up the files that you’ve been working on, you slip them back into the manila folder that they’d come from, and placed that back into your filing cabinet. Locking it up, and turning off your desk light, you remove your white lab coat and grab up your bag and keys.  
  
“I’ll see you later, Molly.”  
  
“Bye, Y/N!” She calls to you.  
  
You start to open the door, but you turn towards Mr. Holmes, a hand still on the doorknob. He’s already gazing steadily at you. If the man could ever show sympathy, he would probably be doing it right now. His eyes seem to hold a sense of knowing, but you can’t read them. He nods slightly, and says something that you never expected to hear from him.  
  
“Be safe, Y/N.”  
  
You leave quickly, without a word.


	2. Benjamin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get back home, Mr. Holmes' warning echoing through your mind, but in a fit of exhaustion, you forget it all. Benjamin isn't all too happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated this one in a bit, but I hope you enjoy!

Arriving home, you toss your keys on the counter. The loud sound of the jangling metal hitting the marble makes you flinch. You peek around the corner of the entryway wall, into the living room, to see that Benjamin is asleep on the couch. He has almost his whole body wrapped around an empty bottle of spirits. A wave of relief washes over you, and you close your eyes for a moment to soak up the silence.  
  
It’s the first time in weeks that he hasn’t met you at the front door, angry and vulgar. You noiselessly step out of your shoes and creep past the sleeping beast, praying that he doesn’t wake. You sidestep over the creaky floorboard near the washroom door, and skulk the rest of the way to your tiny shared bedroom.  
  
When you finally get through the door, after what felt like hours of sneaking, you release a breath that you’d not even realized you’ve been holding. Closing and locking the door, you shimmy out of your tailored skirt, and strip off your silky top, flinging it all onto the floor that you promise yourself you’ll get to picking up later. But for now…  
  
You collapse onto bed, asleep before your head even hits the pillow.  
  
***  
  
The sound of glass shattering in your kitchen startles you out of your sleep. You jolt to the side, falling off of the edge of the bed and nearly knocking your head against the bedside table. It takes you a moment to regain your bearings. When you hear Benjamin’s drunken hollering from the front room, you breathe in deeply, and push out a breath, trying as hard as possible to exhale all of your nerves.  
  
Rising and walking towards the bedroom door, you unlock it, and move to step out. You’re stopped short by the silhouette of a looming figure at the end of the short hallway. You gasp softly, and take half a step back. Nearly tripping over your clothes from earlier, you stumble back towards the bed. Benjamin’s shadow follows you back, hulking and intimidating. You can feel the anger rolling off of him in waves, and you can feel sweat trickling down from your hairline.  
  
“You come home, late, and don’t even bother to wake me?” He towers so far over you that you have to crane your neck to see him. He lurches forward and wraps a meaty hand around your upper arm, hard enough to bruise. “Answer me,” he growls out, centimeters from your ear. His hot whiskey breath makes you want to vomit.  
  
“I-I’m sorry I didn’t w-wake you. I h-had an extended shift and M-Molly came in l-late. I-I was j-just so tired, a-and I forgot.” You stutter helplessly.  
  
“I-I-I d-don’t care,” he mocks your stutter. Relinquishing his grip on your arm, he takes a step back and stares at you. The illumination of a car’s headlights drift across his face, and you can see the wicked smirk that he has painted on. His brown eyes glimmer evilly, and you can see flecks of red and gold in his coffee colored irises.  
  
Without a word, a hand snaps out and twists into the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging at the roots. You let out a startled yelp and follow him involuntarily, doing whatever you can to ease the pressure on your scalp. He huffs out a hideous laugh and drags you, half crawling, out into the living room.  
  
Once at the sofa, he throws you down onto the cushions, and stands over you. Narrowing his eyes, he sits atop the coffee table, and the wood creaks beneath all two hundred pounds of him. Resting his elbows on his knees and leaning towards you, he scrutinizes you.  
  
This is no Consulting Detective evaluation. With Mr. Holmes, he figures out what kind of person you are, where you've been, and what you do. He can finish his little analysis and know how many dogs you have, of what size, and which one you like the best. He can tell you your own backstory. Know how insecure you are. He finds what you try to hide without spending more than a moment in the same room as you.  
  
Benjamin, however, is searching for something that you still aren’t sure about. Whenever he’s really angry with you, he takes a few minutes to just look you over. As if he’s reevaluating all of the planes of your body, memorizing which ones seem the most vulnerable. _He’s probably just trying to think of the best way to beat me without bringing about the police._  
  
“Y’know, you smell of men’s cologne.” He mutters suddenly. For a drunk, he’s pretty perceptive. “It’s all over you, Y/N.” Tilting his head to the side, his eyes reconnect with yours, and you can see the pure hatred in them. His pupils always dilate before he hurts you. An adrenaline rush before he plays his favorite game: Kick the Y/N.  
  
The thumping of your heart reverberates through every bone in your body as your eyes widen. You aren't even wearing your work clothes anymore, how would he know? You’re literally sat with him, in your underclothes.  
  
“Wh-what are you talking about?” You speak just above a whisper, trying as hard as possible to melt into the cushions.  
  
“You know what I’m talking about. Y/N. You're cheating on me, huh?” You shake your head vehemently. “Oh really?” Nod. “Then tell me why you got home so late.” He sits up and crosses his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow expectantly.  
  
“M-Molly came in l-late.” Taking a moment to breathe, you swallow back your stutter and continue. “I couldn't leave Mr. Holmes alone in the morgue. Last time-”  
  
“Mr. Holmes?” He asks cockily, smiling cruelly, like he's just caught you in a lie. “That what you call him? Hm? Bet you think about him all the time, huh?” You start shaking your head fervently as he goes to stand. You didn't mean it like that, but of course Benjamin couldn't care less.  
  
“I told you not to lie to me, Y/N,” he sighs, faux disappointed etched into the lines of his face. “I thought you’d have learned by now.”  
  
You have a moment to panic before he grabs you up by the back of your neck. The last thing you see is his thick knuckles flying towards your face, and then the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((I might upload another chapter by the end of the day, I'm not sure yet.))


	3. Emergency Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to work, a shiny new friend on your face, and let's just say the Mr. Holmes feels a bit more blunt today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I lost the files for a bit also my WiFi has been janky.

            You awake to the jarring ring of your alarm clock.  Splayed out on the living room floor, you’re face down in the coarse carpet.  You sit up, too quickly, and all but pass out from the upsurge of piercing pain that blooms beneath your left eye.  You slowly lay back down, and breathe deeply, trying to ground yourself.  Once the world discontinues its dreary pirouetting, you sluggishly push yourself up from the floor, groaning at the soreness that you feel radiating from your left side.  You squint around the flat.

Benjamin’s keys aren’t on the hook by the door, and his coat and shoes are gone.  You breathe out a sigh of relief.  Once your heart returns back to its usual rhythm, the incessant ringing of your clock demands your attention once again.  Treacherously rising to your feet and pushing off of the sofa, you stumble to your bedroom.  Delivering a brutal slap to the top of the clock, you turn, and stagger towards your washroom.

Tossing on the light, you have to suppress a horrified wheeze at the face looking back at you from the mirror. 

            Your left eye is swollen, the top lid drooping heavily; it’s bloodshot and throbbing.  The area directly beneath your eye, edging towards your cheekbone, has a splotch of purple staining your typically uniform S/C skin.  It has spots of blue and black blending in with it, creating a hideous bruise.  There’s an angry red band surrounding the purple-blue, and it fades into a slightly yellowed tone.

            You begin crying, acutely aware of the fact that crying does nothing for headaches, especially of this kind, but you do it anyways.  You sink to the cold tiled floors, tuck your knees under your chin, and blubber like a newborn.

***

            Nervously checking and rechecking your makeup in your front facing camera, you walk slowly towards the lab.  When you finally reach the door, you sigh, and swallow back a sob, the fear of someone noticing yanking at your stomach.  With another deep breath, you push open the door, and walk in, a tight-lipped smile in place.

            Mr. Holmes is bent over a microscope, a notepad to his right, and a ball-point poised above the paper, prepared to take note of whatever he detects.  He doesn’t even glance up from the scope to greet you, not that you’d have been expecting any kind of acknowledgement.  You drop your smile, and continue towards your desk, pleased that you don’t have anyone to pretend for.

            Sitting at your desk, you rest your elbows on the desk, hands over your face.  A wave of shame washes over you, humiliated that you’ve let this happen to you.   _ Again _ .  Heaving raspy snuffles, you remove your hands from your face, and turn to your filing cabinet.  Unlocking it and removing the appropriate beige folder for today’s bookkeeping, you begin your work.

            Nearly a half an hour of silence goes by, for which you are appreciative.  No talking, no prodding comments, no explanations.  Perfect.  Mr. Holmes is still writing down his findings from the magnifying instrument before him, when he pauses.  You can feel him looking at the side of your face, but you refuse to look up at him.  For the first time in the entire while you’ve known him, he seems unsure of himself, not knowing what to say.  It’s as if for once, he doesn’t know enough about something to make you feel inferior about the matter.  Regardless, he opens his mouth to speak, and you’re fairly aware of the fact that discomfort and awkwardness are going to follow.

            “Are you alright, Y/N?” he wipes his hands on his trousers.

            You glance up, eyebrows wrinkled in confusion.  Why would he bother?  It’s not like him and his fancy deductions can’t tell.  He called you out about it just yesterday.  His asking is probably more for the sake of manners.  You weren’t even aware that he had any in the first place.

            “Yes,” you state simply.  You really are not in the mood to elaborate on the topic, and for once, you’re hoping that he doesn’t go full on Consulting Detective on you.  You turn your eyes back to your work, and pretend that you can’t feel his gaze boring into the side of your head.

            “You aren’t.”  He seems sincerely concerned, and you look at him inquisitively.  You’ve never seen this side of him.  He seems to realize the crack in his professional exterior just as you do.  He straightens up and slips back on a mask of indifference and preeminence.  “I only ask because that’s what most people do to make it seem like you have a choice in letting your anxieties come about in a conversation.  I know that you’re anything but alright.”

            You stare at him, offended.  How dare he act like he knows your life?  It isn’t as if it’s any of his concern, anyways.  An indifferent, impartial, disconnected detective?  You can deal with that.  A worried, nosy associate?  You don’t plan on dealing with anytime soon.

            “I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Holmes.”  Once again, you try to go back to work.  He scoffs loudly, and you can see his cocky, know-it-all personality bubbling back up to the surface.

            “Oh, please, I’m not an imbecile.  That horrendous amount of concealer about your eye indicates that you’re attempting to hide a contusion.  You are a properly attractive young lady, and I have no doubt in mind that you’re aware of it yourself; you’re much too intelligent to believe otherwise.  Your limp confirms a recent side injury, probably a bruised rib.  You start at loud noises-” he slams a hand onto the stainless steel table, and you can’t keep yourself from flinching. “You constantly blame yourself for things that are clearly to no fault of your own.  Typically Molly is the one to screw up, as easily distracted as she is.  You show some of the most typical characteristics of an abuse victim.”

            You honestly have no clue what to say.  Telling him that nothing’s wrong would be worthless at this point.  A lump rises in the back of your throat and your eye starts to throb all over again.  Folding closed the file sitting on your desk, you move it to the “Out” box on your desk and stand up slowly.  Removing your lab coat and donning your fleece jacket, you grab up your purse and move towards the door.

            “It’s about time for my break.” 

***

            Fumbling around outside of the entryway of St. Bartholomew’s, you impatiently swipe your hands across your pants.  Your palms are clammy and cold, shaking horribly badly.   _ I look like a damned Chihuahua.  I just need to pull on my big girl pants, and go in there. _  You nod your head to yourself, closing your eyes and breathing in deeply. 

            Without opening your eyes, you stride through the doors, making your way towards the elevators.  You only squint them open for long enough to get into the elevator safely.  Once in the sky coffin—claustrophobia, acrophobia, and motion sickness, how grand—starts its sickening upward motion, you close your eyes again and anxiously fiddle with your hands, shifting from foot to foot.

            You reach your work floor, and the elevator  _ dings _ , the doors sliding open.  You open your eyes, and take another deep breath, slipping a fake smile onto your face.  You push through the workroom doors and turn a dazzling smile towards the stool that Mr. Holmes had previously occupied.  The microscope light is still on, and the pen is lying across his notepad, but his chair is empty.

            Your smile drops and your confident chest-out-head-high stance melts down into your typical mousy posture.  You can’t tell if you’re incredibly relieved, or heavily disappointed.  You wanted to show him that he had no reason to butt into your personal life.  It isn’t as if it’s his place, really.  He thinks that he knows things just because he can deduce and pick apart crime scenes.  Maybe he should just keep those skills to himself, reserved for his job.

            You huff, decidedly angry with the man, and turn on your heel to stride to your desk.  Flopping down into your seat, you twist in the chair and run your hands through your hair, puffing out your cheeks and blowing the air out loudly.  Pulling open your desk drawer, you sink a hand into the first compartment, reaching for your phone.  When your fingertips brush the cold metal bottom of the shelf, your brow wrinkles in confusion.  You lean down to look further into the drawer. 

_             Nothing _ .

            You pull open the drawer directly beneath it.  Your heart rate picks up.

_             Zip _ .

            The next drawer.  You’re starting to sweat.

_             Nada _ .

            You check back through your purse and your coat pockets.

_             Zilch _ .

_             Oh dear god in the heavens above, please let me find my phone. _  Benjamin calls and texts constantly.  If you don’t have your phone on you when he next tries to reach you… “Oh  _ god _ ,” you whimper quietly to yourself.  This isn’t going to end well.  It’s not as if anything ever really does.   _ I need to find that bloody phone. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be up within the hour to make up for the abandonment issues that I've probably given you all.


	4. Molly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dickhead detective, an abuse victim, and a pissed off pathologist walk into a lab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaand here it is!

            You practically toss every one of your belongings at least twice.  Paperwork and manila folders cover your desk, and tears are running down you cheeks.  You can feel the hives starting up your chest and neck, as they always do when you cry.  You swipe at your face, hiccuping and weeping, quite loudly to be honest.  You hear the workroom door bang open, and you whip your head up, hoping that Benjamin didn’t come to get you.

            When Mr. Holmes strides in, unwrapping his blue scarf from around his neck whilst tapping at the tiny mobile in his hands, you sigh in relief.  He glances up at you, and he has an eyebrow quirked up.  It takes you a moment to realize that you’re on your hands and knees before your desk, scraping through the bottoms of your drawers.  You stand slowly, clearing your throat.  In a vain attempt to chase down and lasso your dignity, you swipe at the tears on your face and try to smooth your hair.

            “What on earth, Y/N,” he doesn’t seem surprised or worried, just curious, and a little freaked out, in all honesty.  He looks around at the mess you’ve made.  “Have you been trying to find something?  Your self-respect perhaps?”   _ Ouch, okay _ .  He drops his scarf onto the table, and ruffles his ebony curls.  “By the way, your boyfriend has been ringing nonstop.”  He lifts and waves what you now know to be your phone.  Jaw dropping, you feel anger bubble up from your gut,  _ and those damned hives are coming back, bloody hell _ . 

            “It got agitating after the first three times so I picked up and told him to quit calling, but he just started yelling, so I hung up.”  He tosses it towards you and you lunge forward to catch it, clutching it to your chest and letting out a moan of relief.  “I put it on do not disturb afterwards, so don’t worry about me having blocked your beau.”  You begin scrolling through your texts in chronological order, trying to put off seeing Benjamin’s newest threat.

            (12) Y/N pick up

            (11) Answer your phone

            (10) Right now, you useless cow

            (9) I want to call you just so I can fucking SCREAM at you

            (8) GOD YOURE PISSING ME OFF AGAIN

            (7) WhO THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT

            (6) Y/N PICK UP YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW WHO WAS THAT

            (5) WHO WAS IT

            (4) A N S W E R M E

            (3) Do you want me to strangle you, is that it????

            (2) I don’t get fucked over, this isn’t done

            (1) You just wait

            At this point you are legitimately shaking, and you can feel the tears rolling freely down your face.  On shaky legs, you stand up slowly and turn towards Mr. Holmes.  With bloodshot eyes and a sob-thickened tongue, you excuse yourself quietly.

            “I-I have to g-go now.  Molls should be in s-soon anyways.”  You begin grabbing up your things and you can hear Mr. Holmes shuffling behind you.  When you turn back around, he’s closer now, though still a bit far off.  He looks to be fiddling with his fingers, twisting them back and forth.  His face is stressed with honest to God guilt and concern. 

            “Y/N, I didn’t mean for things to get-”

            “-I’m fine, Mr. Holmes.  My shift is nearly done anyways.”  You let out a dry laugh and jerkily shrug on your coat.  You leave the disseminated papers across the tiled floor and push your chair in.  Switching off your desk lamp, you close the drawers and move towards the door.  “Good evening, Mr. Holmes.”  You push through the door and step out. 

            Once the heavy door closes behind you, you begin crying freely again, shaking and sobbing hideously.  You allow yourself a few moments before you have to go home.   _ Who am I kidding, that’s not a home.  Those stainless steel tables are more home than that dungeon of a flat _ .  You swipe quickly at your face and start down the hallway again. 

            When you reach the elevators, you see that one is already on its way up, probably to the top floor.  You nearly jump out of your skin when the doors slide open before you with a  _ ding!   _ A fluttery Molly sweeps out of the elevator in a cloud of daisy perfume and cheerfulness.  She almost looks too bright at the moment, and you have to squint a bit. 

            She’s so out of place in this gray corner of the world, leaning over the definition of morbid and taking notes on the conditions of their morbidity.  She’s a spot of sunshine in your day even though you only see her for a few minutes.  She always has a smile on her face, even if the worst thing’s just happened to her.  She’ll make a pun and move on.  Molly is a special kind of beautiful and you pray she never sees the darkness you have.

            “Oh, hello Y/N, how are-” she cuts herself off and her eyes go wide with worry when she takes in your sickening state.  “Oh my god, Y/N, what happened to you?  Are you okay?  Oh dear!”  She grabs you by your shoulders and leans in close, already activating her Mother Hen Mode.  “God, no, this isn’t happening.  You’re coming with me.”

            She grabs your wrist in a solid yet tender grip, and begins dragging you down the hallway.  Your phone buzzes again in your pocket and you gasp, swallowing back a sob.  Molly bursts through the workroom doors with a set jaw and livid eyes.

            “Sherlock, what the  _ hell _ did you do?”  The small brunette drops your hand and marches over to the table Mr. Holmes is at.  She yanks the notepad out of his hand and unplugs his microscope.  In all of the time that you’ve known Molly, the gentle, nurturing creature that she is, you’d never expect her to ever be this cross with anyone.   _ Ever _ .

            His eyes go wide, and he seems genuinely confused for a moment.  Before you can so much as blink, his face has taken on a defensive appearance.  “What the bloody hell are you on about?”  When Molly steps to the side and gestures towards you, his expression softens and he immediately looks apologetic.  “Y/N, I-” you cut him off.

            “Molly, honestly this isn’t his fault.  I just need to go home.”  You begin to turn towards the door again, but before you can take more than three steps, Molly’s grabbed you and sat you down on a stool straight across from Mr. Holmes.  You’re shocked silent and you and the detective exchange a glance before turning scared gazes back towards Molly.

            The petite pathologist before you has never looked more intimidating.  She stands with her hands on her hips and her eyes narrowed.  She keeps her voice lowered—which you are so grateful for—when she addresses you and Mr. Holmes.

            “I’m no idiot.  I know what’s been going on, Y/N.”  As soon as the words are spoken you can feel your heart drop to your toes and your stomach leap to your throat.  “I know about Benjamin and I know that he hurts you and I know that you’re not one to ask for help.  I told Lestrade but he can't do much of anything unless you come forward.  I thought you’d have realized for yourself that things needed to change.”  You begin taking deep, shaky breaths.  Molly turns to the detective and she immediately becomes more hostile.  She wags the notepad in front of Mr. Holmes as she starts to speak.  “I also know that you know about everything and you haven’t said a damn thing about it!”  She smacks him on the head with the notepad, disturbing his dark locks.

He huffs out a disgruntled noise of disbelief, too shocked by Molly’s behavior to say anything.  She turns back to you, her expression now one of concern and sympathy.  “Sweetie, I know that this is probably the last thing that you want to do—or even can afford to do—but you need to go to the police, or leave him, or something.  Better yet, do both!”  She throws her hands up and they slap back down onto her thighs.  Her subsequent huff is the only sound in the room.

            You sit there in silence for a moment, desperately trying not to begin sobbing or screaming or ripping your hair out or flipping a table.  Your eyes are glued to the tiles, and everything is so quiet that you’re pretty sure you hear a cadaver cough.  When you finally look up from the floor, you find Molly looking sadly at you.  You let out a heavy sigh and nod.

            “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's two chapters left--basically a two-part epilogue. I'm not sure when I'll have them up, but let's hope that it doesn't take as long as these past two chapters did.


	5. Sally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A savior named Molly and her sidekick named Sally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um ?? feel free to kill me ?? this has been sitting in my google docs for too long and i never got around to updating ?? yikes i'm sorry we moved house and school started and my AP classes are kicking my butt

Two weeks later, you’re staying in Molly’s small flat.  You take turns doing the laundry, feeding the cat, using the bed—since you two have opposite work schedules—and making food.  Whenever you wake before work in the morning, you’re sure to cook a good breakfast for you, and a second for Molly, letting it sit in the microwave for her to retrieve after you two switch out.  Whenever you get home from work late at night, Molly’s made dinner for the both of you, and she takes hers in a to-go bin to eat on the way to Bart’s. 

It’s been thirteen days since you’ve last seen Benjamin, and you don’t think you’ve ever been able to breathe this well.  It’s like you’ve literally removed a weight from you.  You no longer limp to work or wear an extraneous amount of concealer.  You’d not had to excuse yourself as clumsy or inattentive to form justifications for your persistent injuries.

Mr. Holmes has not been around for a while, but you will be forever grateful for him standing as a witness when you’d gone to file a report at the police station.  Sgt. Donovan—“Call me Sally”—had taken your case, and been unendingly sympathetic, allowing you to take your time with your statement.  Once you’d finished up, she’d driven you home in a squad car, accompanied by two more officers. 

When you’d made it to your flat, they’d gone in before you, taking Benjamin away in handcuffs.  In his pathetically inebriated state, he seemed to hardly notice the cuffs or the flashing lights.  When he was being pushed into the car, things finally clicked together.  He immediately sobered up, and once he’d lain eyes on you, a stream of vulgarities and threats were tossed your way.  Sally had taken you away, distracting you with small talk.

“Do you have a place to stay?” she’d asked.

“I can’t stay here?”  You were confused.  You lived there, after all.  She smiled sadly, and the look in her eyes had told you that she knew.  Not that she’d just dealt with abuse cases before, but that she really, truly  _ knew _ .  Your chest clenched and you immediately felt sorry for her.  She’s so strong now, and you can tell that she got this way by fighting her way through it.   _ Maybe I’ll be like that, someday _ .

“Not the best to stay.  Y’know…memories.”  She’d gestured vaguely around the miniscule apartment, sighing slightly.  You nodded, getting what she meant.  Sally told you to pack up your things, since you’d be rooming with someone, who’d yet to be decided.  You loitered around your apartment, trying to take in everything.  Maybe you just wanted to commit it to memory and file it away under “Never Again”.

You packed up your life, and left with Sally at your side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear the next part will be up within the hour i hate myself i'm sorry guys


	6. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detective... has a heart? Aren't you glad you dug that up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is tiny and short and sweet and just a cute little Sherlock moment to make up for me neglecting this fic

“Y/N?”  Mr. Holmes calls you over to the cadaver he’s been inspecting for the better half of the last hour.  You step away from your manila folder after finishing up your paragraph on Meredith Nancy’s autopsy report.  Walking towards him, you stand to his left, a foot away from the slab.  You stare down at the opened cavity of Mr. Carlson’s chest.

“Something irregular, Mr. Holmes?”  You lean further over to see what he was doing.  His hands are poised above the body, a scalpel in one hand, a magnifier in the other.  You glance up with another question on the tip of your tongue, but you’re stopped short.  When your gaze meets his, the query dies on your lips.

Your eyes are locked with his, those steely eyes.  They look like ice, grey and blue and cold, and you don’t believe you’ve ever seen them look this open.  He isn’t poking at something, or trying to solve something.  He just looks exposed.  Vulnerable.  His eyes dart away.

“How are you?”  His voice is unsure and shaky, and you glance down to his mouth in time to see him nervously lick his bottom lip, dragging it between his teeth and worrying the soft skin there.

“I’m doing fine, Mr. Holmes.  You?”  He shakes his head, and the mop of curly black hair atop his head swishes around, the coils bouncing back into place, seemingly undisturbed.

“No, no, no.  I mean…” He pauses, searching for the best way to ask it.  You know what he means, but somehow it doesn’t seem right to take this away from him.  “Have you been better?  I mean, I know that you’re better.  You’ve had a significantly happier disposition and you no longer come in here with a favored leg, or a stupendous amount of makeup on your face.”  A small smile slips across your lips as he rambles on.  You lay a hand on his upper arm, causing him to stop talking.

He doesn’t look up at you, but his eyes do quickly shift to your hand on his arm, and you can’t tell if it’s you or him, but surely one of you has a fever.  The spot where you touch him seems to burn hot, through his layers of clothing, but you refuse to draw away.

“I’m doing much better, Mr. Holmes.  Safer.”

He looks back up to you, worried, and when he sees the sincerity in your eyes, he releases a breath, which you’ve not known he’s been holding.  Another slight smile dances across his lips and you mirror the action.

“Call me Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end of this and it's not even that good i feel so bad about not updating for months, but i really hope you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> I've noticed that half of the stories I write have to do with Reader being in an abusive relationship??? I just have this thing with relationships and bad things happening whilst I'm in them idk.
> 
> I hope you liked it though!!


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